


Every Day for a Year

by Arcwin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Exhibitionism, Forest Sex, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23104687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Jaskier's performances always earn him plenty of much wanted attention, especially when he's touch-starved and frustrated by his nearly mute companion, Geralt. Geralt pretends not to be jealous. Confessions of feelings and forest "relations" follow. Mild angst followed with some happy feels.**Completed story, will post weekly on Wednesdays for the next few weeks!**
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt stared, unblinking. Across the dusty tavern, Jaskier was sauntering around, playing his lute while crooning some saucy ballad about sex. Many of his songs were about sex. Geralt tried not to notice.

Several of the patrons were entranced with the bard, eyes suggestive as they followed him around the tables. Geralt snorted into his beer and looked away. Behind him, the song ended to enthusiastic applause accompanied by Jaskier’s joyous appreciation of their compliments. His voice barely made it over the increasingly drunken conversations around them until it was drowned out entirely. Geralt stared down at his clenched fist on the table next to his ale, trying to convince himself not to look behind him for the bard. Jaskier was  _ fine _ . (Usually.) He didn’t  _ always _ need to be rescued. At least this time his music was well received. A testament to the less watered down ale of the establishment, no doubt.

“Another,” he muttered as the barkeep reached for his mug. A fresh pour was plunked down in front of him, some of the foam spilling over the top and running down to the table. He eyed it, nearly feeling the cool liquid sliding down his throat without even picking it up. But, something in him tugged at his attention, his ears searching for signs of Jaskier. 

The din of the tavern grew louder. He wished the idiot would just come sit down, though knowing him he was regaling some of the townsfolk with tales of their most recent adventure, always looking for ways to shift the public sentiment toward him to something more positive. He was fine, Geralt was sure of it.

_ Fine _ .

Losing his own battle, the Witcher slowly turned his head to glance over his shoulder in the direction he last heard Jaskier’s voice. 

No sooner did his eyes begin sweeping the tables for his companion when an amused voice murmured in his ear, “Looking for me, Geralt?”

Grunting in frustration, he whipped his head back around to stare at Jaskier, whose cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the tavern and his recent performance. His chestnut bangs clung to this forehead, damp from his twirling and singing, and his blue eyes shone with mischief and ale.

“You’re drunk,” Geralt commented.

“No more’n you,” Jaskier challenged, bumping shoulders with his friend. “Besides, at least I’m a fun drunk!” He leaned forward, nearly touching noses with Geralt, before winking and pulling away with a smirk. “Now, I’m off to go find some company that appreciates my songs. Namely, that table of beautiful young ladies and positively stunning lords over there.” He pointed to a table near the fire, full to the brim with overdressed and very drunk young nobles. Slinging his lute from his back to his chest, he began strumming and singing his way over to his audience, who toasted him and cheered.

Geralt downed his ale and considered leaving. Clearly Jaskier was in a particular  _ mood _ tonight, one that he wouldn’t be persuaded out of. Geralt couldn’t blame him. They’d been travelling for weeks, barely stopping to replenish supplies. Neither of them had enjoyed the company of anyone other than each other and Roach in quite a while.

The table Jaskier was entertaining erupted in raucous applause, their admiration of the bard exaggerated by their loose coin and frequently filled mugs of ale. Geralt let himself steal a glance in that direction, not admitting to himself that he found Jaskier’s proud smile at the very least charming to look at it.

The sight that greeted him is one that he shouldn’t have been surprised to see. 

Jaskier was backed up against the wall near the table he was just at, arms wrapped around another young man who was kissing along the bard’s jawbone. His head was thrown back, long neck completely exposed and inviting. The man pinning Jaskier ground his hips forward, encouraged by Jaskier’s hand on his arse. The bard’s mouth was slack, and had the noise of the tavern died away Geralt could have  _ felt _ Jaskier’s moan all the way down to his toes.

Heat rushed to Geralt’s face as he watched the two young men grinding against each other, clearly chasing release. He stared, though he knew he shouldn’t. Not that there was any expectation of privacy here. But, still. He knew he shouldn’t keep staring and yet, he did. 

And then, Jaskier’s piercing blue eyes were staring right back.

Something stirred in the air between them. A sly smile crept along Jaskier’s lips before they parted in a soft  _ “oh” _ . Not once did Jaskier take his lust-filled eyes off Geralt, even as the man in front of him tugged at his tunic and slid a bold hand up to tease his nipple. Not even as the man’s other hand wrapped possessive fingers around Jaskier’s chin, jerking him into a bruising kiss. Not even then. Jaskier stared at Geralt, and Geralt stared right back.

There were no words that could describe the cacophony in the Witcher’s mind as he watched Jaskier’s face flush, those talented lips open to let his lewd gasps and moans tumble forth. He shifted on his stool, aware of the effect this scene was having on his body, and took a full, shuddering breath. The bard -- no,  _ his _ bard -- was edging closer to orgasm and still he stared so deeply into Geralt’s eyes that there was no one else that mattered in the entire universe. 

When it finally happened, Geralt nearly dampened his own trousers right alongside them. Jaskier’s eyes rolled back in his head as his hand clutched at the young noble’s tunic, fingers twisting in the fabric and turning white. The man he was with slammed Jaskier into the wall roughly as he thrust his hips forward a last time, resting his forehead on the bard’s shoulder as he found what he wanted between them. When Jaskier came back to reality, his lazy eyelids slid open while a soft, knowing smile played on the corners of his lips. Geralt could feel the taunt across the busy tavern.

_ You liked that, didn’t you Geralt? Liked watching me get off? _

The Witcher inhaled deeply and forced himself to finally look away.

“You done, lad?” the barkeep asked suddenly, startling him. “Or do you want another?”

Geralt cleared his throat and shook his head. Not trusting his own voice, he threw a few coins down on the bar and stood to leave. He took a final look out across the tavern, searching for Jaskier, but the bard was nowhere to be found.  _ Perhaps cleaning himself up,  _ Geralt mused. 

And, with the image of Jaskier’s face as he orgasmed replaying itself over and over in his traitorous mind, Geralt left.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier stumbled out into the cold winter air, bracing himself against the outer wall of the tavern as he stared up at the stars. He knew he should clean up the mess in his trousers, as it was quickly becoming sticky and unpleasant against his skin. The memory of it washed over him, reheating his cheeks as he thought of Geralt’s piercing yellow eyes on him, watching him come undone. He chuckled to himself and stumbled towards the edge of the woods where he heard the slow trickle of a brook. 

As he splashed some of the sinfully freezing water on himself, the ale in his blood seemed to absorb much more quickly, bringing him pretty damn close to sober. The yellow eyes flashed in his mind again. 

“ _Fuck_.”

He buttoned up, not bothering to tuck in his tunic as he usually would have, and stomped back toward the tavern. Flinging open the door, he shouted, “Geralt!” his tongue still a bit loose from drink. A few of the patrons closest to him paused in their revelry and turned to look at him, but generally the rest of the guests in the bar ignored him. More importantly, there was no white haired, broody Witcher amongst them. The stool he had been occupying was empty, a few coin on the bar in front of it. 

His heart thudded frantically in his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Something... _happened_ between them. Well, something happened for Jaskier, anyway. It was anyone’s guess when it came to Geralt, a truth Jaskier knew all too well. He needed to find him, that much was certain. As soon as fucking possible, too, before Geralt’s head made up some stupid explanation for it and Jaskier lost all hope. _Again_.

One of the nobles came sauntering over with a stupid grin on his face, breaking the bard’s concentration, holding Jaskier’s lute as if he meant to play it. “Hey,” he crooned, strumming a few discordant tones.

Jaskier stared at him, looking back and forth between the man’s face and his precious instrument in those boorish hands. “If you don’t _mind_ ,” the bard began, reaching out.

“Ah-ah!” the man replied, pulling away. “Not until you share your name, my sweet bard. Anyone I have the pleasure of getting off with must at least be more than a pretty face in my dreams.”

Realizing much too late that this was the person he had been humping earlier, Jaskier feigned a quick smile. “It’s Jaskier...now, _if you please_ …” He reached again for the lute, hoping to grab it and get away before the poor sod kept trying to make a connection that was doomed before it even started. 

“Just Jaskier?”

“Just Jaskier.”

“Sing us another one, Jaskier my love, my sweet faced angel,” the man pleaded, finally handing the lute over. His hand lingered on Jaskier’s, thumb stroking the back of his hand before pulling reluctantly away.

The bard sighed, then slung the strap over his shoulder and strummed out a quick, bawdy tale of a blind man who took down two lovers in the same night, only to find out that it was the same person twice. He twirled elegantly away from the man who had clearly become infatuated with him, looping through the bar patrons until he finally made it to the front door. With a flourish, he bowed to raucous applause and ducked out, happy to be away from the stale, smelly aromas of the bar. 

Striding purposefully towards the treeline, Jaskier focused on breathing. It helped him ignore the racing thoughts in his head that kept repeating the millions of catastrophic outcomes he might be facing once he found Geralt. 

Geralt had _liked_ watching him. (Maybe.) Had he imagined it? It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of Geralt as a very, _very_ productive means to his favorite type of end. He knew the man enjoyed sex; he’d heard him, and on more than one occasion _seen_ him thrusting into whatever ladies of the night the various villages had to offer for a modest amount of coin. It was tough for witchers to find willing companions. Especially the famed Butcher of Blaviken. When Geralt was able to seek release beyond his own hands, Jaskier was happy for him.

Even if the flare of jealousy kept itself smouldering in the pit of his stomach.

A small fire burned in the distance, tucked into a small clearing between some pine trees. The heavy breath of a horse echoed around the tall trunks. Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest, barely tempered by the warm alcohol still making its way through his blood. Almost all of him screamed to turn back and leave Geralt to his night alone. 

But, the part of him that always won out when it came to Geralt kept his feet moving until they were planted at the edge of the clearing, facing the white haired man across the fire. 

“I didn’t expect to see you back tonight,” Geralt murmured, not bothering to look up. He poked at a log. 

Jaskier pointed at the sky and inhaled, chest swelling with all of the things he wanted to say, before he let it all out in a dramatic huff. The words wouldn’t come. 

They never did.

So instead, he moved around the fire and took his place next to Geralt on the fallen log he was sitting on. The pair stared at the fire, acting as though the sizzling, cracking air between them didn’t exist.

Jaskier waited, sure that the blunt and courageous man next to him would speak first. Seconds became minutes, which rolled along in the night until nearly an hour had passed without a single word between them. The bard’s patience wore thin.

“Strong silent type, I get it,” he blurted out, regretting it instantly. His embarrassment did nothing to temper the flood as it poured from his mouth, however. “Geralt, that man, he was just, well...honestly I didn’t even find out his name. He found me afterwards and asked me for mine, and I didn’t even bother to ask him for his. That’s how unimportant he is, just a stupid man in a stupid bar and I--I was just horny and--”

“Jaskier, shut up,” Geralt said softly. There was no malice in his voice, despite the harsh words. 

“I am stupid,” the bard finished, mouth clacking shut. 

At this, Geralt turned his head to the side, peering at Jaskier. “No more stupid than I.”

Jaskier met Geralt’s gaze, staring into his unnatural yellow eyes. Suddenly they were back in the tavern, the magnetic pull between them drowning out the sounds of the forest. Heat coiled low in the bard’s belly, further reminder of their connection earlier. He knew he should look away, but nothing in him could possibly make it happen. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, barely above a whisper.


	3. Chapter 3

Up to this point, Geralt had been nearly convinced that Jaskier possessed at least a tiny amount of innate magical ability. He seemed incapable of aging at a normal rate, and could captivate anyone’s attention when he put some effort into it. However, he had also shrugged it off as coincidence, or evidence of the man’s natural talent or appearance. Jaskier was likely just a man, a humble bard who chose to spend his days following around a filthy, grumpy monster hunter in order to gather material for his songs all while turning public sentiment more favorably towards Geralt. Their relationship was symbiotic. 

Nothing more.

This was the story Geralt told himself every night as he fell asleep listening to the soft, gentle sighs from the bard lying next to him. 

As time passed, he found himself growing more fond of the bard. It started as basic protective instincts, wanting to keep Jaskier safe at any cost. It made sense, he reasoned. The bard sang good songs about him, was charming and enigmatic, and was only occasionally annoying on their travels. Otherwise he was decent company. Better than most.

Protection turned into possession. Geralt didn’t notice it at first, but one day as the bard’s back disappeared into a curtained off room at the back of a tavern, his fist clenched at this side. He growled at the barkeep for another ale, and pretended he didn’t care about what Jaskier was doing.

And so it went. New town, new monster, new distractions. The witcher did what he could to keep up, but the bard was especially skilled in finding willing partners. It seemed to be an unspoken competition between them, in a way. At least, that’s what Geralt wanted to believe. There was an annoying warmth that bloomed in his chest every time Jaskier’s blue eyes met his, lips spreading wide in a mischievous smile while he planted his hands firmly on his hips. 

Geralt didn’t want to need anyone, and he didn’t want anyone needing him. When he fed that line to Jaskier, the bard all but laughed in his face. “And yet, here we are,” he said, though his eyes told a different tale. _You need me so much, Geralt. I can see it. I need you too._

The way he stared now as he breathed, “Geralt,” said the same thing with an intensity the witcher didn’t want to believe was possible. _Sorcery. It must be. No one else has such an effect on me._

His hand rose, unbidden, to cup Jaskier’s face, thumb resting gently on his lips. Without hesitation, Jaskier kissed it reverently, never once taking his eyes off Geralt’s, who felt like he was drowning. The brisk winter air whistled through the trees, blowing a few stray strands of Jaskier’s wavy brown hair over his forehead. Behind them, Roach huffed loudly, then knelt down for sleep. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of a pack of wolves howling at the full moon. He was vaguely aware of the time as his bones ached, ready for rest after their long day of travel. 

And yet, none of it mattered.

Geralt was in love with Jaskier. 

“I’m...sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, large eyes wide and glistening in the firelight. He winced, then frowned. “I probably crossed a line there, I guess, staring right at you while--”

“It was hot.”

Jaskier stopped short, eyes widening even more. Then, he smiled, a devilish thing, while his cheeks flushed pink in a way that made Geralt’s arms tingle with goosebumps. “It was, wasn’t it?” 

The witcher smiled back, soft and gentle. “Really hot.”

“I knew it,” the bard whispered, more to himself than anything. “You _liked_ it, Geralt,” he teased.

“More than half the tavern probably did.”

“Don’t care ‘bout them. _You_ , the witcher, a man mutated by magic who supposedly _can’t_ feel human emotions... _liked watching me get off_.” Jaskier smiled triumphantly, clearly pleased with himself and to be honest, rather smug. 

“Hmm.”

“No, no way, you aren’t getting out of this that easy! No hmms for me, Geralt. Tell me what you really think, come on. You got all hot and bothered watching me like that.”

Geralt paused for a long time, then gave the bard a half smile. “I wish it had been me, Jas.”

“It can be just as easily now.”

“You would... _have_ me?”

“I would have you every day for a _year_ and then ask for more, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” The witcher stared, mulling Jaskier’s confession a million times over. They were quiet for a while, just looking into each other’s eyes, both searching for the truth and finding all of it hidden away. A log cracked and split, falling over as the flames rose higher, illuminating the pair with dancing golden-orange light. 

“I _literally_ sing songs about you, Geralt. I have been yours for the taking since we met all those years ago. Why do you think I seek the company of so many when we travel? I assumed you had no interest. They were...distractions. A way to pretend. Nothing more,” Jaskier said, desperation in his voice. Geralt could see the panic in the bard’s eyes as he explained and excused, too far gone to repeal the truth now. Jaskier hands lay clenched on his lap as he finally looked away, staring off into the dark woods around them. 

Geralt breathed deep, then smiled. “Jaskier,” he whispered. “Jaskier, look at me,” he added, reaching a hand out to rest it on the bard’s fist. 

The bard inhaled sharply, then turned abruptly and practically pounced on Geralt, hands threading into his white hair as he smashed his face into him. Their lips collided roughly, a mess of teeth, and Geralt was so surprised he nearly lost his balance and toppled backward. Jaskier kissed Geralt with such ferocity there were sure to be bruises in the morning. 

Geralt liked it. 

A _lot._

Once he caught up, his strong hands gripped Jaskier’s hips and pulled them to his lap, happy to have the smaller man finally against him. Jaskier moaned obscenely into his mouth, releasing everything he had been ignoring for the past several years in one go. Geralt could have melted to the ground at the sounds erupting from Jaskier, full of guttural growls and heady moans that sunk themselves deep in his blood, ready to live there for the rest of his days. 

Jaskier pulled away, panting, and rested his forehead against Geralt’s. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. The witcher could feel his heart hammering in his chest, thrumming like a trapped hummingbird. 

“I’d like that,” Geralt replied, failing to mask the arousal in his voice. The bard’s eyes grew wide as he nodded enthusiastically. He leapt away and started yanking at his clothing, only to be stopped by Geralt’s rough hands on his own. “Jas,” he chided gently, pulling his hands down to his sides. “Let me.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier choked out, voice rough. “I may ruin my trousers yet another time tonight if you undress me yourself.”

Cocking his head to the side, the witcher smiled. “If they are already ruined, then what does it matter?”


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier’s mouth hung open as he breathed through a shudder, eyes sliding shut in reverence. Never had he imagined that this moment would come. He had been content, albeit frustrated, to live his life by the side of his witcher from Rivia, never broaching the topic of their relationship at all. He had figured it was a fruitless conversation. At best, Geralt’s conversations were short lived and mildly insulting; at worst, he wanted to punch the man in the face. Thankfully he never did, as it would surely have broken at least a few of his fingers. And  _ then _ how would he have kept up his part of their arrangement? 

And now, as if out of his best fantasy, Geralt stripped him in a way that was absolutely sinful, taking care with every lacing and button. He folded each item neatly and lay it in a small pile nearby on top of his horse blanket, ensuring nothing would be stained or damaged by the surrounding wilderness. Jaskier watched with wonderment as the witcher’s hands worked methodically. It was nearly ritualistic, in much the same way Geralt took care of Roach or sharpened his blades and restocked his potions. 

When Jaskier was finally undressed, he stood before Geralt feeling a mixture of arousal and vulnerability. The man looked him over, yellow eyes roaming everywhere as if appraising the bard. Eventually, Geralt seemed to snap out of whatever state he was in and shed his tunic haphazardly, throwing it off somewhere to land in a nearby bush. Jaskier watched it, but before he could comment on it Geralt was upon him, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s back and pulling their chests together. 

“Hmmm,” he growled in Jaskier’s ear as he nosed along the side of his neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell of sex.” He took another deep breath, bringing his mouth down to kiss between Jaskier’s collarbones. “And that man you were with.”

Jaskier threw his head back to look up at the stars as Geralt continued kissing and suckling at his chest, letting himself be supported entirely by the witcher’s strong arms. “I...ooh, Geralt, more of that! I said...oh, oh! Oh!” he yelped as Geralt took his nipple between his sharp teeth. “Sorry, sorry!” he exclaimed, hands coming to rest on Geralt’s shoulders as he might push him away at any moment. It was almost too much, being surrounded fully by the man he’d be pining after for years. The sensations were overwhelming--skin on skin, then skin on leather below the waist as Geralt hadn’t yet shed his trousers.

Geralt pulled off Jaskier’s nipple and smiled up at him. “Don’t be sorry. Just means I have to work extra hard to get it replaced with my own.” 

“Geralt, really, you can’t expect me to last even a few minutes if you say things like that to me! It’s unfair!” Jaskier complained, twining his hands in the witcher’s hair to bring him up for a deep, lustful kiss. Before they broke away, Geralt dropped his arm and scooped the bard up, carrying him over to the bedroll a few feet away. He knelt and deposited Jaskier gently, then stood to divest himself quickly of the rest of his clothing. 

As he knelt back down, a sweet smile on his lips, Jaskier reached for him, happy to pull the man down into his arms. They slotted together neatly, Geralt’s body easily enveloping Jaskier’s smaller frame as they lay together. Jaskier moaned the moment they touched, arching his back while digging his heels into the bedroll for leverage. 

“Fuck, Geralt, fuck, how...sweet mother of...this is, ooh, you are--”

Geralt hummed, one hand gripping Jaskier’s hip while he propped himself up on the other elbow. Despite his nearly incoherent babbling, Jaskier managed to slick up one of his hands with spit, wrapping it around them both. They slid together deliberately at a pace set by Geralt, one that had Jaskier cursing the moon, trees, and animals in the forest as he slowly climbed towards orgasm. At one point, he wrapped one of his legs around Geralt’s, pressing the bottom of his foot into Geralt’s calf in the hope it might spur him on towards a faster pace. The witcher was undeterred, however, from taking things slow and steady.

“Ooh, ooh this is unfair, you are the  _ worst _ , it’s a good thing I--”

Jaskier’s free hand slapped Geralt’s arse cheek, fingers kneading the flesh as he thrust his hips up, chasing release. Geralt stared down at the bard, his own face becoming flushed and sweaty. His grey hair fell down around them like a curtain, tickling Jaskier’s neck and shoulders as they moved together. 

“Jas,” Geralt moaned, dropped his head down onto the bard’s chest as he rocked his hips harder. “Jas, fuck, Jas…”

“Oh, God, Geralt, don’t say that, don’t do that, I can’t, I just...oh fuck…”

Geralt growled, sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier made a strangled sound, something between a yelp and a moan, and slapped Geralt’s arse again. The air around them seemed to still momentarily as they silently fucked Jaskier’s fist, hard and fast. 

Then--

“Oh, oh, dear mother of God, Geralt,  _ Geralt _ !”

Jaskier orgasmed first, his muscles clenched and toes curled as he arched up into Geralt. A litany of curses and blasphemy streamed from his lips, interspersed with obscene moans and sighs. 

“Jas, fuck, mmmm!”

As soon as Jaskier's release began coating Geralt’s stomach and chest, the witcher joined him, his voice a deep rumble low in his belly as he clutched Jaskier’s hipbone like a lifeline. He dropped his head down onto the bard’s chest as he sailed past the peak, muscles suddenly heavy and weak.

Beside them the fire burned down, casting long low shadows across their sweaty forms. Geralt lay nestled in the crook of Jaskier’s arm, head resting gently on his chest. Jaskier held him close, thumb rubbing small circles on the man’s shoulder as their breathing slowed. 

“What’s a good thing?” Geralt asked suddenly, his voice hoarse.

“Mm?” Jaskier murmured, sleepy.

“You said, ‘it’s a good thing…’ earlier.”

“Mm, oh, that… ‘s good thing I love you, ‘s all…” With that, the bard began to snore.

Geralt popped up onto his arm and stared down at Jaskier, his content expression barely discernible in the dwindling firelight. 

“That  _ is _ a good thing,” he agreed as he reached over to pull a blanket out of his rucksack to place over them both.


End file.
